


Man of Mystery (NSFW)

by eratothemuse



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Daddy Kink, F/M, Light Choking, NSFW, Smut, Unprotected Sex, alluded to stalker-esque behavior, canon-typical manipulation, not safe for work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 12:02:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20527718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eratothemuse/pseuds/eratothemuse
Summary: This was supposed to be a simple, relaxed holiday. The most to worry about was keeping the boys and the girls in their separate rooms, right? When you decide to chaperone your brother’s trip to Europe, you get more than you bargained for. Maybe Mysterio wasn’t all good manners and gentlemanliness, after all.





	Man of Mystery (NSFW)

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: *circus music distantly in the background* Y’all don’t need to tell me, I already know how much of a clown I am for fallin’ for this jerk. 🤡 Sorry not sorry.

##  **Man of Mystery (NSFW)**

Gif sources: [1](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fgifer.com%2Fen%2F3a7M&t=OTNhYmU3YzA5YWI1Njc2MzJhOTIyMmE4YzFjMjQyMGViNWI3YWU5YSxzR002UW1JOA%3D%3D&b=t%3AuNoi0AujsProexVbD5JsWA&p=https%3A%2F%2Fthranduilsperkybutt.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F187508217548%2Fman-of-mystery-nsfw-gif-sources-1-2-3&m=0) | [2](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/187484680132/cinemagal-jake-gyllenhaal-as-edward) | [3](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/187391524712/alimahershalas-in-a-few-hours-i-could-literally)

* * *

_"L'uomo di misterio.”_

That’s what they had called him, and the rest was history. In those moments, as the Italian news faded in your ears, you looked to your brother, sharing a kind of glance that could only be deciphered between siblings, words left unspoken but still there. It was all you needed to know that this vacation was not going to be the laid back retreat he had so desperately needed in the wake of Tony Stark’s death.

“_Mysterio_,” you hear one of your brother’s classmates call— Becky, you think is her name, or maybe Betty? She sighs dreamily at the screen before leaning into Ned’s side, “He’s amazing, isn’t he?”

Ned wraps his arm over her shoulders fondly, “Yeah, babe!”

You couldn’t explain your sense of dread in that moment. Not quite yet.

It didn’t take long to meet him, in a flash of bright green smoke, a fishbowl adorning his head in a way that would have been comical had he not been actively saving your life. You shouldn’t have been roaming the streets of Venice alone, anyway.

“Are you alright?” the fishbowl— should you call it a helmet?— dissipates, revealing the man beneath. All dark hair and blue eyes, a carefully kept beard shadowing his jaw— it’s a combination that would have been dangerous if it weren’t for the fear still lacing your veins, forcing you to clutch your small bag as he hands it back to you. “It’s unsafe on these streets at night, even in this world, it seems.”

“Thank you,” you manage dryly, before shaking off your discomfort. You look in the direction where your would-be mugger had run off, finding the cobblestone sidewalks empty. With a lick at your lips to wet your tongue, you look back to him. His name sounds stupid on your lips, “Uh, Mysterio.”

“Quentin,” he reaches out, offering you his hand familiarly. His lips quirk up, friendly enough of a smile enticing you to take it. When you do, you notice how larger his hand was to yours, and the strong grip there, “You’re Peter’s sister, right?”

And you’re back on edge, bristly, “How do you—?”

“Oh, sorry, Fury keeps a file on all of us,” he shrugs sheepishly, like a child admitting to being caught doing something they shouldn’t have, “I may have taken a peek inside Peter’s.”

“Ah, yeah, that makes sense,” you don’t try to hide the distaste on your tongue at the mention of the man. Damn him for dragging Peter into this. Embarrassingly, you finally realize you’re still gripping Quentin’s hand, retrieving it quickly to point off down the alley, where you’d originally been heading, “Well, thanks again for, you know, saving me. I should be getting back to the hotel before everyone gets worried, though.”

A droplet on your nose makes you gasp, familiar dread washing through you as the bottom drops out of the sky. A squeal leaves you, your eyes closing, anticipating the sudden soak of a downpour, but the rain never strikes.

Quentin’s chuckle brings you back, forcing you to look at him. He’s bathed in a green glow, almost neon, the edges of his suit projecting towards the sky a sort of shield that keeps you dry. Geometric patterns swirl above you, dipping around you like a makeshift umbrella.

“Looks like I’ve gotta’ walk you home, or you’ll get soaked,” you can’t tell if he’s joking or not when he adds, “what a chore.” Then, a chuckle breaks through, sarcasm revealing itself and urging you to laugh in return.

“Guess you’ll have to be my hero twice in one night.” God, you can’t believe you just said that. Cheeks flaming, you bite back the flirty tone, smothering it in the back of your throat. You were rusty.

He doesn’t seem to mind, though, with the way he edges his cape over your shoulders, startling you with his sudden hand on your forearm, “After you, Miss Parker.” His hand releases you for a moment, when he adds, “If you don’t mind.”

“No,” you’re thankful your voice is steady as you accept his hand by leaning back into the warmth of it. “You’re fine. Thank you.”

The way he’s looking at you sends a flush down to your toes; all attention and for a brief, daring instant, you allow yourself to think he’s flirting with you, too. You bite your bottom lip, before allowing him your name, despite knowing he already knows it.

He smiles, neon green glinting on the white of his teeth, and you can’t help your thoughts. _He’s beautiful._

He leaves you on the front steps to the hotel, smoke following him as he escapes through the rain, but not until he leaves you with a phone number._ Just in case you need a hero again._

His number’s buzzing on your phone by the next morning, right as you’re angrily boarding the bus to Prague. _Just heard. Fury shouldn’t have forced Peter’s hand like this. I can’t help but feel like this is my fault. I’m sorry._

“What’s that?” you glance up, meeting the curious— and_ tired_, you hate to note— eyes of your brother. He takes the backpack you offer him and accepts the brush of your hand over his forehead as you right his messy hair. It’s almost a reflex at this point.

You don’t know why you lie, “Just May. Worrying, like usual.”

“You’ll let her know about the change in plans?” his voice lowers, keeping your conversation at the front of the bus private, “I really don’t wanna’ have to tell her I’m gonna’ have to fight the fire guy.”

“Actively handling it,” you nod. Peter abandons you to sit beside Ned, while you take a seat near the teachers at the front. Glancing down to your phone, you frown out your text to Quentin. _Don’t say that, it’s not your fault. Fury is just selfish, like usual._

_On the bright side, guess I’ll be seeing you again._

You can’t convince yourself that the way your heart jumps is because of the bumpy road. Glancing out the window, you catch sight of the smile in your reflection. You felt like a stupid teenager. In an uncharacteristic boldness, you tap out your next message, thumb hovering over send for an instant before you just do it.

_Maybe I’ll need my hero again._

That was stupid, you manage to think, before your phone dings again.

_I know I sure hope so. :schlarb emoji:_

A giggle leaves you, which you quickly bite back at the strange look you get from Mr. Harrington at your side. You don’t have the heart to tell Quentin that emoji doesn’t exist in this world. With a sigh and the swipe of your fingertips, you prepare yourself to send a text to your aunt. She needed to know of your rapidly derailing vacation.

You leave out your secret excitement for Prague in your texts to her, even when she teasingly asks if you’ve found a “European paramour.”

It almost feels wrong to drop your suitcase by the door of your newest hotel room.

“Dang, this room is stacked! And here I thought you were getting the short straw,” Peter marvels from beside you, helping you check your room before he was to retire to his own. You were situated on the fully opposite end of the hallway from which the rest of the group resided. Apparently, the hotel had run out of rooms coupled together, leaving you to bunk alone.

It sounded much less pleasant than it in actuality was, when the host had explained your _inconvenience_, “I think you and Ned are gonna’ want to be bunking with me, instead.” A snort leaves Peter, which you match in your own giggle.

“If you get lonely living in the lap of luxury down here, we’re right down the hall,” Peter teases back, a roll of your eyes following him before you find yourself alone, the door whirring to a lock behind him.

Dragging your luggage further into the suite, you note the double doors on the opposite end of the room. A separate bedroom. You doubted Fury was trying to butter you up, so you settle on the explanation that the hotel had actually ran out of simpler rooms to couple you in. It only takes a few minutes to settle in, stealing an undoubtedly overpriced beverage from the included mini-fridge. Hey, if Fury was going to hijack your vacation, you were going to hike up his bill.

It’s nice and cool, going down the back of your throat as you take a look out on the balcony. With the sunset dying in the distance, Prague is much more beautiful than you could have imagined. It hurts to know that somewhere, the city would be left in ruins, not too long from now. You dump your drink, half-full in the trash as you go back inside, a bitter taste left in your mouth.

This trip was becoming business, not pleasure.

“Hey, hey,” you interrupt, a light scolding in your tone that differentiated you from the teenagers you were meant to be chaperoning. Ned is stammering, Betty a fiery, beet red up to her ears at having been caught snogging the way they were. It was adorable, really, but you weren’t about to let them know you thought that. “Lights out was ten minutes ago.” You decide to torture them a bit more, “No hanky-panky.”

“S-Sorry,” Ned squeaks out your name, watching as Betty darts as quickly as she can past you.

“Uhm,” Betty blushes more, if that was at all possible, a sweet tone in her voice before she scoots towards her own room, “g-goodnight, Neddy-poo!”

“Night, Betty-bear!”

You bite back your laughter, a slight worry taking your mood as you ask, “You heard from Peter?”

A seriousness settles upon the boy, as if he was thinking about lying to you, up until you give him a look that makes him think twice, “He went out with MJ!”

“Oh,” that shocks you, and almost hurts that he hadn’t let you know he’d gotten back safely after the fight with the Fire Elemental. You do your best to ignore that feeling, “Well, I’m just glad he’s okay, you know.” Sounding in better spirits than you really were, you get a laugh from Ned with, “Looks like I’ll have to play bad-cop when he sneaks back in, though. If only to keep up my chaperone-y appearance.”

“I’ll be sure to warn him,” you hear around the edge of the door as you shut it behind you. Sighing, you shoot a text to Peter to let him know that it would have been nice to hear he was okay, at least, before he snuck off with Michelle. But, you can’t be too hard on the kid. He could finally relax for the rest of the trip, looked like.

The length of the hallway to your suite is walked by the end of your text, a swipe of your key card letting you into the extravagant room. If nothing else, you’d at least enjoyed the best sleep of your life in the down comforter that tempted you to bed once again. Not bothering to even change into your pajamas, you instead strip your shoes and pants on the way to the room, settling into the covers in just the t-shirt you’d worn today. Sure, it smelled like smoke and was dirty from tonight’s running, but you hardly cared for it more than your tired bones were demanding their break.

You’re just on the edge of sleep, the precipice between consciousness and unconsciousness where the faint awareness of the darkness and silence existed, when it’s broken. The sound is quiet enough, but there. A whoosh in the night that has your eyes snapping open to look frantically around the room. In their sleep-clouded haze, you still manage to make out the green glow from behind the thin white curtains along the balcony, the barrier hiding your privacy from the outside world.

You audibly gasp when a knock taps on the balcony’s glass door, feet hitting the pristine carpet and leading you to peer around the curtain with far more excitement than you would have dared shown had you been in a more awake state of mind. The cool night air hits you when you open the door for him, hastily reminding you of your state of undress.

“Quentin,” you greet, tugging at the hem of your oversized shirt, thankful it’s just barely long enough to keep your modesty in combination with his height.

“Looks like I woke you up,” his voice is deep, a solid force pushing you from his path and allowing him into your bedroom before you think twice. “I’m sorry.” You have half a mind to believe him, if it weren’t for the unapologetic way he can’t seem to help looking up your form.

“Ah, I just laid down,” you wave him off, trying not to sound so enthusiastic at finally getting to say more than two words to him in the wake of his last battle. “You’re fine.”

“I know I probably shouldn’t be here,” he turns, cape catching the wind dramatically as he looks back to you with a conflicted glint in his eyes, “but I couldn’t go to Berlin without seeing you. Without saying goodbye.”

“Berlin?” you mimic, tone more confused than his own had been. “What’s in Berlin?”

“Didn’t Peter tell you?” his brow raises curiously. “Fury wants me to join the Avengers. I’m supposed to be announced in Berlin.”

“Peter’s out with a girl,” you laugh, “he’s a little distracted at the moment.”

“Heh,” Quentin chuckles with you, nodding in satisfaction, “so the kid finally decided to tell her how he feels? Gotta’ give it to him, he’s got more courage than I do.”

“What makes you say that?” you follow him, watching him sit along your bed, it dipping with his weight. “You both seemed pretty brave taking on that monster tonight. I’d say you’re even.”

“No, because, you see,” he pauses, and you swear time slows when he reaches for you, fingertips brushing against your bare knees before his eyes dare to glance up, meeting your startled gaze, “I can’t tell the girl I like, that I do.”

“Quentin,” you breathe, heart jumping to your throat and effectively silencing you. You take another breath, trying to get out a full sentence with the heat of his hand at your thigh, advancing upwards with the time you spend not retreating from his touch, “you can’t mean me…”

“Why not?” Quentin’s lips quirk upwards, smiling at you and completely dizzying your judgement, “Is it really that hard to believe?”

“You barely know me,” you murmur, fighting with every cell of your body to not give in quite yet. To be logical about this. Giving into your emotions was never an easy thing to do, not when you had to be the strong one. The older sister, looking out for her baby brother, all the time.

“I know you well enough to know that you’ve completely consumed me,” when had he gotten so close? Had you taken the step towards him, or had he coaxed you closer to stand between his knees? Your hands rest on his shoulders, metal and fabric texturing your senses, as his words seem to entrance you, his smile far too devilish to allude to any innocence in his tone, “You’re all I can think about.”

Part of you wonders if that’s true, or just lip-service. The other part of you doesn’t care, because either way he’s elongating his neck, dipping forward on the bed and tugging you down by a gentle hand on your jawline, downward and downward, onto his lips. Like your some kind of lovestruck Alice in Wonderland, and he’s the hole you’re falling deep, down into.

He surges up, the last few millimeters, to capture your lips with his own. His grip on your thighs tightens, his hand at your jaw urging you into his chest, onto his lap. You’re warm all over, despite the lack of your clothing, a heat rushing through you at his closeness and the position you so easily find yourself in, with little protest on your part.

Never had you done something like this; allowing a man so quickly between your legs wasn’t like you at all. But, God, you wanted him, far more desperately than you could ever admit. You feel the metal of a wedding ring against your cheek, but that doesn’t stop either of you from your effort at consuming each other. His lips are greedy, raspy pants gasped against your tongue. It was shocking, the one-eighty he’d done from the sweet, considerate man who had been texting you over the past few days. That same man who had been hesitant to touch your shoulder as he walked you home in the rain in Venice.

The European atmosphere must have dissipated your inhibitions. Yeah, that must have been the reason why you moaned into his lips, your hips grinding against the thick suit between you involuntarily. You’re immensely embarrassed as soon as you do it, but his groan is enough to demolish your worries that he wasn’t just as into this as you were.

You break the kiss, finding his mouth chasing yours to lay another on the edge of your mouth, up until your hand moves to the metal along his chest to push him back just enough to get out a single question, “When do you have to go?”

“Not until morning,” he’s so close you can fully admire the length of his lashes, dark along the rim of his wide eyes, which seemed far darker than they had been moments ago. “If you’ll let me stay.”

And this is it. The moment between who you are and who you’re going to be tonight. The moment where you could just as easily get your wits about yourself and tell him that, no, you weren’t that easy.

But you don’t, you just arch into him, tongue between your lips as you observe his suit with a thoughtful concentration, up until you finally grumble, “How does this thing even come off?”

A chuckle, before you find yourself on your back, his hands along your spine easing you into the down of the duvet while he leans back, “In parts, honey.”

_Holy hell. _Your mind goes blank, the endearment rushing over you and bothering you far more than he knew. Your cunt throbbed, actually fucking _throbbed_, and you know you’re already wetter than you should be at such a simple term that has fallen from his lips.

“Quentin,” it sounds like a moan, even to your ears, as you watch him unclip the cape from his shoulders, looking far too downright heroic to be staring at you the way he was. With a reach behind his back, he struggles with the straps for just enough of a time to make you wonder how he’d gotten it on in the first place, before they submit to his hands. The chest-piece slacks, and he tosses it to his side for it to land, haphazardly in a weighted _thump_ along your carpet. You can’t help the smile that breaches your lips at the sight of him, in some kind of skin-tight wet suit looking outfit.

“What?” he leans down to capture your lips, no doubt to wipe the smile right off of them. With a nip along your throat, he murmurs, “Don’t tell me you think I look silly.”

“No,” you refuse, and it’s quite honest. You don’t know how, but somehow he manages to pull off the ribbed wet suit. Your fingers slip around the back of his neck as he thoroughly ravishes your own, feeling the zipper there, urging it to unzip as best you could with his distracting you. When he leans back, he rips at the fabric along his arms, forcing it to peel off of him while you tease, “You look sexy.”

He shoots you a look, like he can’t tell if you’re being serious or not. Just as quickly, it disappears, along with the rest of his suit and any undergarments, kicked from his feet to the floor beside you. _When had he removed his boots?_

The thought escapes you when he returns to his attention at your neck, fingers splaying beneath the shirt that had found itself bunched around your waist. You’re filled with self-consciousness the higher your shirt hikes, the kind that comes with opening yourself up to someone like this. Logically, you know he won’t take one look at you and run for the balcony, but in the crevices of your mind, it’s a distant possibility.

When he pushes it above your chest, the air conditioning sending your nipples to harden, you find yourself releasing your hold on him in favor of covering yourself. He leans back, tongue abandoning where it had been leaving kisses around your collar.

“Don’t hide from me, honey,” and you really want to obey. His grasp on your wrists guides your hands away, pushing them above your head as he grinds down against your clothed core, a moan choking in your throat as the weight of him pushes your hands into the duvet. A spark in his eye, his voice on the edge of a joke, “Show Daddy what you’ve got to offer.”

That _shouldn’t_ affect you the way it does. It shouldn’t send a gasp from your throat, your pupils dilating in the dark. And it really shouldn’t have you rutting into him the way you do, craving his friction as the word rumbles from his chest to settle into your own.

The reaction isn’t missed by Quentin, horrifyingly enough, “Huh? You like that?” His grip never leaving your hands, he kisses down the valley of your chest, your shirt forced uncomfortably above the swell of your breasts. You don’t give him the satisfaction of an answer, but your body betrays you enough. He takes a nipple into his mouth, laps at it pornographically, his smirk widening along his face villainously as he peers up at you knowingly, “You want to call me Daddy while I fuck you, honey? Tell the truth.”

“Yes,” it’s small and meek, a whisper hidden by your lips.

He’s not letting you off that easy, and you get the feeling that he’s getting off on your misery, somewhere behind his grin, “Daddy can’t hear you, honey. A little louder, please.” His teeth graze along your nipple, and you tug at his hands, but his grip is strong with the weight of his body over yours, keeping you where he wants you.

“Yes, I do,” you manage a bit louder, breathy gasps between you as he teases your breasts with his tongue. You test, the feeling of need surging you onward, “Please, Daddy.”

“Good girl,” he hums, grinding slow against you, allowing you to hump up to him as he takes his time abusing your chest, “Such a good girl for me, honey.” He releases your hands, only to rip your shirt above your head, forgotten among the sheets beside you.

“Quentin,” you gasp, reaching for him as soon as you’re able, fingers raking through his thick, dark hair and noting the slickness to it— a product of his previous fight, if you had to guess. His hands delve into your panties, cupping you as he drags his fingers through your folds.

His voice is husky as he looks down at you, that damnable grin still lingering, “Is that for me? You’re so wet, honey. Don’t tell me, you’ve been wanting this for a while.”

It’s not a lie when you admit, “Since the second I saw you.”

The circles he rubs against your clit send little electric pulses through you, scrambling your thoughts when he chuckles, “Me, too, honey. Been wanting you— can’t think about anything else. Just you, on your knees, mouth on me. The things I want to do to you—” His hasty confession breaks in a groan as your hand reaches for the length of him, stroking along his dick brazenly. He was a nice size, though not worryingly. He still feels absolutely perfect in your grip, especially with the way his hips jerk into your hands. The noise he makes when you gently squeeze, you don’t think is voluntary.

“Let me,” you murmur in his ear, feeling his shiver at your tone. The lust there, it’s foreign to you. Your voice doesn’t sound right to you, more needy than you had ever sounded before. “I want to make you happy, Daddy.”

“_Fuck_,” he grits between his teeth, looking down at you as his thumb stills along your clit with one last electrifying flick, before he retrieves his wet hand. “Start with this,” Quentin brings his fingers to your lips, urging your mouth to open. You do it, actually _like_ it, and moan around his digits when you taste yourself on the length of his index and middle fingers. You’re glad it’s his right hand, as you’re certain his wedding ring would be in the way with how forcefully he pressed them between your lips.

You moan his name around his fingers, watching his eyes flutter for a moment before he pulls them back, fingers wet with your spit as they splay along your throat, interrupting your swallow with a light squeeze, “Stay right there, honey.” You do as he says, watching him lean back to situate himself along the bed beside you. At the lilt of his fingers, you move to crawl over him, until he clicks his tongue at you disapprovingly.

“Uh-uh, ass up here,” his words go straight to your core, and you’re certain your legs shake as you straddle him. “I want to taste you.”

“You mean, you…” how do you even put it in words?

“I want you to sit on my fucking face, honey,” he’s demanding, an edge of annoyance at your slight hesitation lacing his voice. Quentin reaches for your thighs, as if to force you upon him faster than you can manage on your own.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you worry, hearing his chuckle from below as you look down at him, your hands planted along his chest, feeling the hairs that scattered there. His beard scrapes your inner thigh, making you jump nervously.

“Oh, don’t worry about me. You’ve got your own job to worry about,” he pistons his hips towards you to accentuate his point, and you almost slip in your positioning when he draws his tongue along the length of you unexpectedly. You shudder in his grasp, whine keening from your throat as his arms wind around your waist to force you down, harder against his face.

You’re going to lose your mind, if he keeps going on like that. The way his mouth works you over, relentless, unlike anything you’d experienced before, almost makes you forget what he’d just said. If it weren’t for the way his dick stared you in the face, heavy and neglected along his lower abdomen, you certainly could have gotten too caught up in the feeling of his tongue against you.

Needing to ground yourself on something— anything— you shift all your focus to him. You lick gently along the length of him, taking him in hand before bobbing down along his dick, letting it hit deep in your throat before moving back off him to tease. His groan vibrates through you, resulting in your own moan along his cock. He jerks in your grip, hips forcing himself into your hand and mouth as his beard scrapes along your clit. His tongue thrusts within you, and you find yourself setting the same pace he does as you do your best to work him over in any fraction of the way he was doing you.

You’re so glad you’re not staying closer to the rest of your group, because there’s no doubt your neighbors could hear the noises you were both making in the dead of the night. You could feel your climax building, dancing on the tip of his tongue as he kisses you in a way that only came with practice.

“Oh, Daddy,” you moan, barely managing to hold yourself together as you praise, “just like that. _Please_.” And you’re back on him, taking him deep and moaning as you try to do something other than cum right then and there.

He jerks against you, nearly forcing you to gag on his cock as his thighs quiver in a way that you’re proud to say you caused, before he gasps, hot against your clit, and pushes you off of him forcefully. You squeal, left panting alongside him in a mess of your own limbs as he catches his breath, chest heaving.

“Did I do something wrong?” you worry, trying your best not to reach between your thighs to rub out the end of your orgasm yourself.

“Honey, I almost came down your fucking throat,” he croaks, staring at the ceiling fan and collecting himself for a hot second that has your resolve breaking, and your fingers slipping between your thighs. When he glances to you, you openly whimper at his gaze, letting him watch as your fingers dip into your cunt, just the way you needed him.

“Please, Quentin,” you’re surprised at yourself, at the amount of seduction you manage to pull off in that moment, “I want you, Daddy.”

A groan escapes him, pushing him up to advance towards you, crawling over you to press you down into the duvet and tug your thighs over his hips. The drag of his cock has you arching your back, urging him to press temptingly between your wet folds.

“Is this what you wanted? You want me to fuck you?” he hums, not too wrecked to keep himself from teasing you still. All remnants of the man he was before falling into your bed are gone, and you can’t bring yourself to care. You like this unexpected side of him, if you had to admit, and you found an unexpected side of yourself in the midst of your want for him.

“Yeah,” you beg openly, “fill me up— fuck me, please! Daddy, please!”

“I’ve got you, honey,” he coos, brushing the hair and sweat and drool from your face as he presses the head of his cock between your folds, forcing a whine from your lips at the feeling of him. You feel the ache, the stretch in your bones, as he pushes deep within you with two sharp thrusts of his hips into yours. Bottoming out, you barely remember how to breathe, all oxygen entering your lungs in wheezy pants of his name. He fares no better, teeth dragging his pleasure against your neck as he starts off at a torturous grind, profanities leaving him— far more filthy praises accompanying them._ Warm, tight, so good, fuck. _You catch some of them beyond the sound of your heart pounding in your ears, your fingernails scraping down his back and pressing his chest to yours, his hips snapping into you at the feeling.

“Please, Daddy,” you whimper, and he gives it to you. Hands at your thighs, grasping them up around his waist as he sets a brutal pace, fucking you into the mattress with his forehead in the crook of your neck. He’s so close, you can feel every moan, every pant against your throat, every word he whispers down to you. It has you coming undone far sooner than you’d thought you would last, the assistance of your fingers at your clit only helping you meet your end.

When your first orgasm comes, your vision goes white, mind blank as you cry out his name, begging incoherently for _more_, even though he’s never stopped in the first place. His teeth bite at your throat, a gentle pressure along with pain as he groans into your neck at the feeling of your walls erratically tightening around him. But he doesn’t stop, doesn’t falter. Just keeps his pace as he fucks you sweaty into the down of this hotel bed.

“Honey, did you—” his voice is hoarse, labored with a deep need that utterly destroys you, “_Fuck_, did you just cum?”

All you can do is nod for him, mouth agape as you wantonly moan, clenching involuntarily at his words. You’re surprised you haven’t ripped the duvet with your harsh grip, fist buried in the fabric. The lack of feathers is all you have to focus on the fact that you haven’t completely shredded these sheets.

“Quentin— Daddy— Fuck,” you cry out, already feeling another orgasm build with his unfaltering pace.

“I think you can hold out for one more,” Quentin growls into your neck, and you faintly think you’ll have the impression of his teeth there before he’s through with you. “Be a good girl for me, honey. Cum one more time. Cum on me, honey. I’m so close— So fucking _close_—”

Your fist abandons the sheets to grab onto the skin of his shoulder, right as his hand takes up where yours had left off between your thighs. His fingers press at your clit, rubbing expertly at you and sending you spiraling to your own end, the smacking of skin against skin akin to a battle cry.

He’s completely vocal when you cum for the second time, a throaty moan choking in his chest as his hips stammer against yours. Slapping against you chaotically and out of sync from the steady pace he had once kept.

Quentin slams himself deep, jerking you up the bed a bit as you feel him spill, hot within you. Warmth spreads through you as the weight of him collapses, the wet dribble of his cum escaping around him and down your thigh. You come back to yourself slowly, body tired and senses muddy as his weight presses you into the sheets, length lingering within you as his tongue laves along your neck, up to your ear, making a shiver wash over you.

“Better than I imagined,” he groans into you, deep and breathy as he struggles to catch his breath.

“Not so bad,” you pant, “yourself.”

When he does finally pull out, you whimper in response, letting him pull you against his chest as you drape yourself leisurely over him. Out of the corner of your eye, you spot his boots, situated neatly at the edge of your closet, where it was left slightly agape. Your brow furrows as you try to remember when he’d had the time to do that.

“Kiss me, honey,” Quentin murmurs, drawing your gaze back to his and the lick of his waiting lips. Your mind goes blank as you do what he says, lost in the feeling of his mouth against your own and his hands in your hair.

You can’t explain the feeling in the pit of your stomach, like something wasn’t quite right, but it doesn’t last long, giving way for the immense exhaustion lulling you to relax into his chest.

You don’t even notice the pair of thick-rimmed glasses, folded neatly on your nightstand.


End file.
